canal to come and bring Marietta home. It would have been a scandalous
thing if the daughter of Angelo Beroviero had been seen by the
neighbours to walk a score of paces in the street without an attendant.
She had thrown a hood of dark green cloth over her head, and the folds
hung below her shoulders, half hiding her graceful figure. Her step was
smooth and deliberate, while the little brown serving-woman trotted
beside her across the wooden bridge.

The house of Angelo Beroviero hung over the paved way, above the edge of
the water, the upper story being supported by six stone columns and
massive wooden beams, forming a sort of portico which was at the same
time a public thoroughfare; but as the house was not far from the end
of the canal of San Piero which opens towards Venice, few people passed
that way.

Marietta paused a moment while the woman held the door open for her. The
sun had just set and the salt freshness that comes with the rising tide
was already in the air.

"I wish I were in Venice this evening," she said, almost to herself.

The serving-woman looked at her suspiciously.




CHAPTER II


The June night was dark and warm as Zorzi pushed off from the steps